“I am grieved—heartily grieved,” said Burdock; “but I really feel at a loss how to advise—how to benefit you.”
“Oh! you can—you can, indeed; or, if you cannot, there is none on earth who will. You know not half of my distresses. I am a thousand-fold more wretched than you imagine. Pity me, sir;—pity me, and I will pray for you.”
“I do pity you, most sincerely,” said Burdock, considerably affected; “but let me implore you to be calm.”
“I will be calm as marble, sir. I have told you my husband is in prison, without shedding a tear;—and now, without a sigh, I will tell you, that my sorrows are of such a nature that I cannot—dare not—must not breathe a hint to him of what I suffer.”
“You positively alarm me, my dear madam. I cannot imagine you to have been guilty of any imprudence: and if not, what is there that a wife devotedly attached, as I know you are, to her husband, cannot confide to his bosom?”
“Oh! much, much, Mr. Burdock. I have no friend,—none in the world, to whom I can tell my afflictions, but you; and I have no claim on you to hear them: you have endured too many vexations, in your struggles for my welfare, already.”
“I regret that no better success has attended my poor endeavours, Mrs. Wyburn; but, believe me, that as far as prudence will allow, my best exertions are still at your service.”
“Then you will hear and advise me?”
“I will, as I hope for mercy, to the best of such judgment as I am endowed with.”
“Oh! thank you, thank you!—on my knees I will thank you.”